Chapter 3 - SHE CAME TO CHARLOTTE BECAUSE SHE THOUGHT SHE WAS DYING
At the hospital, I learned how little I knew about my own mother.
Her oncologist was Dr. Nathan Shah, a calm man in his forties who looked deeply unhappy when he saw me.
“You’re Megan?”
“Yes.”
“Helen talks about you constantly.”
That hurt.
Apparently Mom had told her doctor everything about me.
I knew almost nothing about him.
Dr. Shah explained carefully.
Eight months earlier, Mom had gone to an emergency department in Boone because of worsening abdominal pain and bloating.
Imaging found a suspicious ovarian mass.
More testing followed.
Then surgery.
The scar.
They had removed as much visible disease as safely possible.
Further treatment followed.
For a while, she responded.
Then fluid started accumulating in her abdomen.
Ascites.
That was why she looked pregnant.
The drainage catheter helped relieve it.
Her vomiting, weakness, weight loss and back pain were not pregnancy symptoms.
They were signs that her body was struggling.
I sat beside her hospital bed staring at the blanket.
“When did she have surgery?”
“Before she moved here.”
That explained the scar.
Mom had told me she had “thrown her back out” shortly before Lily’s birth.
I remembered calling her.
She sounded exhausted.
I talked for twenty-seven minutes about nursery paint.
Never asked why she could barely breathe.
Dr. Shah continued.
“Your mother transferred her oncology care to Charlotte shortly after your daughter was born.”
I looked at Mom.
“Why?”
She would not meet my eyes.
Dr. Shah hesitated.
“That’s probably something she should tell you.”
After he left, I sat beside her.
“Why did you move here?”
“To help.”
“No.”
She looked at me.
“Tell me the whole truth.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“I was scared.”
“Of what?”
“Dying alone.”
I stopped breathing.
Mom stared toward the hospital window.
“After your father died, that house in Boone became so quiet.”
Her voice broke.
“I kept thinking that if treatment didn’t work, I would spend my last months sitting in that living room looking at his empty chair.”
I covered my mouth.
“Then Lily was born.”
She smiled through tears.
“And suddenly there was this little person I had never met who was part of you.”
She squeezed my hand.
“I wanted to know her.”
“Mom…”
“I wanted her to know my voice.”
My tears fell.
“That’s why you came?”
“Partly.”
Then:
“You needed help.”
“And I needed somewhere worth waking up.”
That destroyed me.
I lowered my forehead against her hand.
“You should have told me.”
“I know.”
“I would have helped you.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
Her answer came slowly.
“Because I remembered what happened when your father got sick.”
Dad had suffered heart failure for three years before he died.
I was twenty-six.
Newly promoted.
Trying desperately to build a life.
Still, I drove to Boone every weekend.
Managed medications.
Insurance appeals.
Appointments.
Bills.
I thought Mom had forgotten what those years cost me.
She hadn’t.
“You gave up so much,” she whispered.
“I watched you become exhausted.”
“I promised myself I would never turn into another person you had to manage.”
“You’re my mother.”
“That was exactly why.”
I stood.
Angry now.
“You don’t get to decide that loving you is too inconvenient for me.”
She stared.
“You don’t get to make that decision on my behalf.”
“Megan—”
“No.”
I wiped my tears.
“If I choose work, that’s my decision.”
“If I choose you, that’s my decision too.”
“But you hid the choice from me.”
She began crying.
“You’re right.”
It was the first thing that night that made me feel slightly less helpless.
Then Dr. Shah returned.
He had the latest imaging.
The cancer had progressed.
Not hopeless.
Not a death sentence tomorrow.
But serious.
Mom needed a change in treatment.
She also needed nutrition support, management of the fluid accumulation, and time to recover from the dehydration that had brought her in.
I asked the question I was terrified to ask.
“Are we talking weeks?”
Dr. Shah shook his head.
“I cannot predict an individual patient’s future like that.”
Then:
“But no, nothing I see today tells me you should treat tonight like a final goodbye.”
I started crying from relief.
Mom did too.
Then he added:
“She does need to stop pretending she can care for an infant full-time while seriously ill.”
I looked at Mom.
She stared at the ceiling.
“Doctor’s orders.”
I said.
She muttered:
“I already dislike him.”
Dr. Shah smiled.
“Most stubborn patients do.”
For the first time in twenty-four hours—
I laughed.
Then Mom whispered:
“There’s something in my suitcase.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“A blue folder.”
“What’s in it?”
Her expression changed.
“If treatment didn’t work…”
She couldn’t finish.
My chest tightened.
“What did you do, Mom?”
She closed her eyes.
May you like
“I made arrangements for after I’m gone.”
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